


Portraiture

by ravenslight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cursed Object, F/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Portraits, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Transfiguration (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:13:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23072998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenslight/pseuds/ravenslight
Summary: Tell me, father, which to ask forgiveness for: what I am or what I am not? Tell me, mother, which I should regret: what I became or what I didn’t? ~ thoughts of a stray iii - m.a.w.That which Pansy Parkinson touches always breaks.
Relationships: Pansy Parkinson/Percy Weasley
Comments: 23
Kudos: 57
Collections: Transfiguration: 2020 Round One





	Portraiture

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [DBQ2020Round1](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/DBQ2020Round1) collection. 



> Written for the first round of The Slytherin Cabal's 2020 Death by Quill competition. My chosen pairing was Pansy Parkinson/Percy Weasley and the prompt was Transfiguration. Thank you to In_Dreams for her incredibly alpha/beta work throughout this whole competition, as, without her, I'd have been entirely lost. (Originally posted March 9th, 2020)
> 
> Received 4th Place in Round 1: Transfiguration

**Portraiture**

Pansy had never considered herself particularly sentimental. In fact, there was very little that she held onto as physical mementos of times long past. 

It wasn’t in her blood.

Draco had once told her that it was the trait he appreciated most about her. Not her impeccable breeding or rather impressive vocabulary for the scant age of fourteen. He liked that she wasn’t a dewy-eyed twit with a penchant for the ersatz declarations of love often made by way of one discardable object or another. 

But for all that she prided herself for her disenchantment with worldly items, she was not without a vice of her own.

Pansy collected secrets.

It made her feel powerful, and she’d curated it into a trade.

She used her classmates’ secrets to excel in Slytherin, transfiguring discarded items into innocuous reminders of her hold on them, a learned habit from her mother. But children grew wary of her games, and only the likes of Malfoy was willing to gamble their secrets for her company.

Her father called her classmates inferior. Pansy thought them wise.

But children grew up and with age came war, and self-preservation like hers was a trait even the hardiest Slytherins envied.

However, after offering Potter to Voldemort, Pansy was considered an unconscionable associate. 

How she still managed an invitation to pureblood soirées was beyond her, but she never passed up an opportunity to spar.

“Pansy, you look lovely as ever,” Astoria simpered, her hand resting along Draco’s forearm possessively as Pansy pulled her seat out—easy enough to find as it was the only side set for one. If looks could kill, Astoria’s would send Pansy to an early grave. Perhaps then the witch could remove her five-taloned grip from the poor man’s arm. “Shame that you’ve found no suitor.”

It was a game they’d played many times. Pansy revelled in the parrying, and she lifted her teacup, razor-blade smile flashing in the candlelight. “I’ve yet to find a man whose ego doesn’t outweigh the brains in his head. It’s exhausting, being the beauty and the wit.” 

The ghost of a voice whispered in the back of her mind, warm and welcome and reminding her that once— 

Pansy withdrew her wand, summoning the tea service as her other hand gripped the locket that rested over her heart.

* * *

The knock on the villa door comes precisely one year, six months, four days, and twenty-six minutes following Voldemort’s death. 

She rises, gathering her cloak around her while quashing the part of her that dares hope that it’s simply a social call.

The lady of the Parkinson estate, she’s had no polite contact since she was sentenced to house arrest before the Wizengamot. The only communication she entertains are the owls that Daphne sends, idle gossip and inquiries after her health that Pansy has no desire to tolerate but whose rigid upbringing won’t allow her to dismiss.

The place where her wand should be stowed is an empty chasm against her thigh.

A stranger in her own home. That’s how she’s felt all these months, surrounded by her mother’s trinkets and memories of her father.

The tenor of another ringing knock punctuates her steps.

“Honestly, use a bloody spell like a proper wizard,” she mutters. When she arrives in the grand entrance hall, she tilts her chin upward imperiously and slows her bustling to a languid stalk.

What she wouldn’t give for a house elf to take care of such menial duties as answering doors.

The haughty expression falls from her face when she pulls the door open.

Her caller is wearing mahogany-coloured dragonhide boots. Paired with horn-rimmed glasses and a tweed suit on which a Ministry seal is embroidered—by his mother, no doubt—he’s strikingly handsome, and it grates on her nerves.

Pasting on a false smile, she infuses the weight of her ire into her words, manners aside. “I can only imagine you’re here on some sort of nefarious Ministry errand.”

He doesn’t react other than to adjust his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Ms. Parkinson, my name is Percy Weasley—”

“Of that I am _acutely_ aware,” she drawls, making a show of examining her nail beds. 

She can feel his withering glare at the top of her head, but he reaches into his bag, withdrawing a folio. “My name is Percy Weasley,” he reiterates with a severe frown, “an Auror with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Ms. Pansy Parkinson, you are to submit reparations under the War Tribunal Act of Wizarding London for your ties to the Dark Lord.”

Scoffing, she flings the door open, unflinching when it bounces off the wall with a harsh crash. “Take the lot of it, Weasley.” It’s not as though she has anything to lose anymore anyway. Not when nearly everyone she cares about has deserted her.

And when she finally has a visitor, she gets a Weasley who strolls through her door like he owns the damn place. 

It’s a royal pain in the arse, if you ask Pansy. Being a disgraced pureblood. 

He doesn’t wait for her to escort him around the finery in the home, doesn’t pause to wipe the soles of his boots on the mat like a gentleman should. Instead, he deposits his bag and coat in a heap by the door and begins a methodical examination of the hall, parchment and quill hovering behind him as he goes. 

Against her better judgement, she watches him before she retires to the greenroom.

He’s intriguing, she thinks, when he’s lost in the monotony of work, and she makes no effort to distract his careful organisation of her lineage’s worth into checkboxes on parchment.

Shortly before noon, he enters the greenroom. Elegantly reclined on a chaise and sipping from a teacup, she watches him scratch a few remaining notes onto the parchment before he looks up, blinking owlishly at her.

“I’ve taken note of the items the Ministry will collect. Those which have been identified as dark artefacts will be handled by a team of Unspeakables at a later date.” He waves his wand, summoning his bag and coat. “I’ll send a Patronus to notify you of my next visit. I’ll expect a prompt response.”

Her teeth grit together as she stares dagger into her tea. “Death Eaters don’t know how to cast a Patronus.” 

A long-suffering sigh answers her. “Don’t be smart, Parkinson. You were never a Death Eater, and I find it a slight to both my intelligence and yours that you would try to pass yourself off as one.” 

The sudden tongue lashing startles her, and she cants her head to the side, studying the colour rising in his cheeks. “If I didn’t know better, Weasley, I’d say you were uncomfortable here.” She pushes herself upright, a slow smile unfurling on her lips when he takes an involuntary step back as she invades his personal space. “Perhaps the Ministry ought to send someone better suited for the job.”

A powerful thrill runs through her when his facade crumbles with frown.

Maybe it’s his own moment of weakness that spurs hers. “Besides, I haven’t a wand to cast a Patronus even if I could.”

The statement shocks Weasley out of his stupor. “Though your offer of Mister Potter was in extremely poor taste, there’s no definitive proof that you would have acted upon the suggestion.” He pauses, chewing on his lip, and Pansy finds that she’s rather taken by the way the flesh of it pinkens to a deep mauve and even more so when his tongue flits out to soothe the sting away. “I’ll arrange a meeting with Kingsley about this forthwith. Expect my owl.” 

He shoulders past her with one last introspective frown, opens her door, and Apparates away as soon as his boots touch the step.

* * *

The second and third visits are marked by terse conversation and loaded silence.

He handles her belongings with care that borders on reverence, his appreciation for magical objects apparent in the taut line of his shoulders and nimble fingers. 

He’s striking in an arresting sort of way, and Pansy can’t dismiss the part of her that desperately wants to believe that he’s not the wizard she thought he was. If he was, he’d have left her home without commentary on her magic-less life post-war.

“Ms. Parkinson.” He bids her goodbye with a sharp nod of his head, rolled parchment tucked carefully away.

By the third visit, she notices that he no longer colours at her intense appraisal.

* * *

On his fourth visit, he arrives in a rainstorm. 

When Pansy hears his pop of Apparition, she makes him wait a few moments lest he surmise she was waiting impatiently by the door—because she absolutely was _not_.

She swings the door open and props her hands on her hips. “You’re late.”

Percy has the decency to look chagrined. “Not that I have to explain myself to you—” He brushes past her, withdrawing his wand to charm his clothes dry. “—but the Minister required my testimonial today.” 

Air seems to freeze in her throat as Pansy pushes the door shut, closing out the sound of the rain on the greening grass. She heaves in a deep breath, exhaling a strangled, “Oh?” She prays to Merlin he can’t hear the hope in her tone.

The hearty sigh that meets her question sends her shoulders slumping inwards, and she turns, aiming a tremulous smirk at him. “It’s alright, Weasley. Witches like me don’t—”

“The Wizengamot has been called to reconsider their sentencing,” he interrupts, picking a leaf from the front of his tailored overcoat. “I can do nothing about the reparations, but I have pressed for reconsideration of the wand confiscation.” 

She can feel the relief leaching into her bones, awakening the _tiniest_ flare of magic in her core that she might hold a wand again. Measuring her movements, she turns, eyeing him. There’s a raw honesty on his face, and her heart flips painfully within her chest. “Thank you.”

The words are whispered between them, but he seems to understand the gravity of the moment and ducks away, allowing her time to breathe.

It’s then that she begins to think of him by his given name.

* * *

Percy is considering a porcelain swan on his sixth visit when he surprises her. 

“I’ve asked to be your Ministry representative,” he utters, jotting notes on his parchment.

Her blood runs cold. “My what?”

He turns towards her fully, gaze pained behind his glasses. 

They haven’t spoken of his quest to get her wand back. The superstitious part of her believes that speaking of it breeds ill omens, and she has had enough of those to fill her lifetime.

“The Wizengamot believes that you are a danger to the public; the Minister is unconvinced. Thus, I’ve volunteered to act as your representative before the Wizengamot.” He pulls his glasses off the end of his nose, wiping them carefully on his sweater as he resumes appraising the swan. “I intend to prove to them you’re not as dangerous as they think you are.”

He moves to check the box on the parchment that would mark the swan for the Ministry’s coffers, but her hand twitches minutely.

He sees the tell and flicks a brow at her.

Maybe it’s the confession that he’s defending her before the Ministry that loosens her tongue. “It was my mother’s. Her favourite.” 

She’s holding her breath as he stares at the parchment, lips flattened severely. His fingers flex around his quill—a tell of his own—before he decisively checks the box that denotes it as worthless. 

* * *

On the tenth visit, she allows him into her mother’s quarters.

They’re covered in a fine film of dust, not even magic able to keep the signs of disuse away. 

“You’ve not been here for a while.” His comment is innocent, but she hears the question in it. 

"No.” It’s the only concession she allows.

This room is dangerous, both for Pansy’s heart and Percy’s safety. 

After an hour of logging menial objects, Percy approaches a large jewellery box in the corner. Within, Pansy knows he’ll find a trove of priceless jewels the Ministry wants. But there’s also— 

“Careful!” she blurts, colour rising to her cheeks as he opens the double doors, fingers posed to rifle through the contents.

It’s the first time she’s voiced any objections to his search, and he turns his full attention on her. “What’s in that cabinet?” 

She could simply tell him it’s cursed, but that would be a disservice to him and this halfling relationship they’ve developed. 

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to allow him in.

“My mother was a jaded woman, but she was proud,” Pansy begins, navigating the tumultuous waters of honesty. “When my father joined the Dark Lord, she indulged in affairs with Muggle men. And she flaunted her betrayal under my father’s nose by transfiguring their belongings and giving them to me.”

Percy is quiet for a moment before he attempts an answer. “That’s…” 

“The way a Parkinson behaves when humiliated,” she finishes, unwilling to hear his assessment.

Silence falls between them, and Percy begins his cataloguing again. After several moments, he pauses, eyeing her overtop his glasses. “And what happened to her? Your mother?”

Instantly, her eyes mist, recalling the moment she learned her father was a monster.

“Come with me.” She extends her hand.

His fingers settling between hers feel like a promise she can’t accept.

Leading him through the manor, she realises she’d like to reveal all of her secrets to him, but she pushes the thought away as she enters her quarters and retrieves a photo on the side table.

“Fourth year, my father gave me this photo.” Her voice shakes as she extends the frame. Within, her mother peers back, her beauty apparent even in the faded image. “Atop the duvet, he’d organised all the transfigured items she’d given me like evidence before the Wizengamot.”

Her chin quivers dangerously, and he lays a tentative hand on her wrist. The sentiment is clear: he’s there, giving her the time she needs.

“She taught me to be sharp, to wield wounds like a blade.” After a moment, she continues. “And he knew what she’d done. He cursed a necklace and presented it to her as a gift. She thought it was an apology, a way to make up to her for his transgressions. Instead, it trapped her in a portrait.” 

“Why a portrait?” Percy asks, frowning down at the image in the frame.

Pansy sniffs, fighting her tears. “She loved the Pureblood tradition of portraiture—always talking about how she’d have her own commissioned before she died. And this was his punishment.” 

Percy makes a sound that resembles understanding. “Muggle portraits frighten me.” 

She frowns, glancing up at him through her fringe. “Why?” 

He’s pensive for a long moment, studying her mother’s image. “It’s as though they’re trapped; they’ll never grow beyond that point. Imagine that as your only legacy.”

Staring down at the portrait while Percy clasps her hand, Pansy realises she harbours a secret she never meant to keep.

* * *

Each day, their interactions evolve into subtle brushes against each other, conversations that reveal more secrets. After three months of visits, Pansy can tell that Percy is toeing the edge of the precipice that would catapult them into the unknown.

Of all the arts Pansy is well-versed in, self-sabotage is her very best. 

“Why do you come back?” she utters, eyes closing against the nerves dancing along her skin.

He looks up from the jewellery box he is examining, expression carefully shuttered. “Pardon?”

“You’ve gone through every room in the villa. Everything is organised in careful checkboxes on your parchment, yet you still come back,” she pushes. “Why?”

Percy scoffs. “In case you haven’t noticed, I like _you_ , Pansy.” 

“Don’t say things like that,” she whispers, emotion roiling in her stomach. “You’re not allowed to like me; you’re an ex-Order member. A war hero. A _Weasley_.” She spits the name with venom she doesn’t feel.

His eyes narrow with a glimmer of frustration. “I don’t need a reminder about who I am or who you are. I’m painfully aware that the woman I lo—”

She freezes. “You can’t.”

But his eyes are sad when he nods. “But I do, whatever the ramifications.” With a deep breath, he invades her space, cupping her jaw and pressing his lips to hers tentatively, a kiss she quickly deepens.

But just as soon as it begins, she pulls away, fear driving her backwards, shaking fingers pressed to her lips. “We can’t.”

Percy wheels around, raking a hand through his hair. “We _can_ , Pansy. I don’t care what anyone thinks.” He picks up his wand, carelessly combing through jewellery, his lips set in a harsh line.

“I—” But the words stall in her throat, gaze locked on a familiar necklace hurtling towards his hand. “Percy, wait!” 

The warning comes too late, his fingers already closing around the chain, their eyes meeting before a brilliant flash illuminates the room.

It’s just a moment, the briefest second when she’s forced to close her eyes against the onslaught, but when she opens them, Percy is gone.

Where he was sitting, a photo lies, a familiar wand beside it— _her_ wand—and tears well in Pansy’s eyes. She doesn’t have to pick up the image to know. 

But she does—she owes him that much.

Wide-eyed and fearful, Percy gazes back at her. The photo is still, just like her mother’s.

* * *

Shaking herself, Pansy clicked the locket open, peering down at first the image of her mother and then Percy’s fearful countenance. 

He’d loved her even when she’d tasted bitter with heartache.

With a harsh snap, she closed the cover and tucked her secret close to her breast. Pansy picked up her tea—English breakfast, no sugar, just the way she liked it—and took a bolstering sip. “Yes, shame.”


End file.
